


Con Job

by keerawa



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Podfic Available, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undercover was easy, and Ray was good at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Con Job

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_shakespeare/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_shakespeare/)**ds_shakespeare**'s prompt #71: "Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under 't". - Macbeth I. v.  
> **Disclaimer:** Alliance/Atlantis owns these characters. I just feed them when they follow me home.  
> **Thanks to:** My beta [](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/profile)[**nos4a2no9**](http://nos4a2no9.livejournal.com/), who read the first draft and convinced me Fraser needed to come over. I'd also like to thank [](http://mrsronweasley.livejournal.com/profile)[**mrsronweasley**](http://mrsronweasley.livejournal.com/) for her [](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_meta/profile)[**ds_meta**](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_meta/) post [The Redemption of Ray Kowalski](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_meta/1271.html), which started me thinking in this direction.  
> **ETA:** I've recorded a podfic version of this story. It's available for download [here](http://keerawa.livejournal.com/37698.html)

The Ice Queen was seriously pissed about Fraser starting an international incident by granting Ray asylum in the Consulate last week. He hadn't seen the guy since. She'd been laying on the extra shifts, all kinds of crazy make-work. This morning, when Ray managed to get him on the phone, Fraser mumbled something about the Consulate gutters and the need to order more Badger Bristle toothbrushes before apologizing and hanging up on him.

So when he drove past Trader Joe's, the little part of his brain that used to keep Ray up on all of the Stella's anniversaries tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Thoughtful gift time, buddy." The place was expensive and way outside his normal neighborhood, but they might carry that funny Japanese tea Fraser liked so much.

Ray wandered down the aisle of the fancy-pants grocery store with his cart. "Gary?" Familiar rumbling voice, familiar _name_, and Ray turned around just before the rest of his brain kicked in to remind him he had no business answering to that name.

It was Cash, 6'2 of solid muscle, calm dark eyes over a boxer's mashed nose, standing there with a buzz-cut and an employee's green apron. What the fuck was he doing here? He had 10 months before he was even eligible for parole, and that was … Ray counted backwards … now. Fuck.

"Hey, Cash, how's it hanging?" Ray asked, casually zipping up his jacket to hide his shoulder holster and badge. Cash looked more surprised than happy to see him. Usually the guy was loose as a cat in a patch of sunlight, but now his shoulders were up tense and tight.

This could be bad. All kinds of bad, ranging from "Gary Campbell is no longer an effective cover identity" all the way up to "Officer Ray Kowalski was shot dead today in Trader Joe's." Ray didn't see a gun, but this was Cash, so better assume he was carrying.

Cash stepped closer, a smile catching and spreading across his face. "I just got out last week. How've you _been_, man? I got worried when I didn't hear from you."

Well, see, after making sure that you and the rest of Fitzgerald's men got sent to prison, Gary disappeared off the face of the Earth. "Oh, I barely saw the inside of a cell." Ray mimed a quick 'rock, paper, scissors', ending with scissors cutting paper. "Smart defense lawyer beats stupid cop, any day. Dumbass took a bunch of evidence from my case home with him, and then tried to cover it up. DA didn't even prosecute."

Cash shook his head. "You always did have all the luck." He glanced into Ray's cart and froze. "You off the wagon?" he asked quietly, picking up the six-pack. Gary was a recovering alcoholic, just like Cash. Four months of AA meetings had left Ray with a pack-a-day smoking habit to kick once he got his life back.

"Nah, the beer, that's..." Ray thought fast. If Cash decided he was drinking again, he'd be on Gary like white on rice, and Ray needed out of here before things went south. "That's for the guy I'm living with now." Gary was gay, just like Cash. Two points of connection, a few conversations over coffee after AA meetings, and Cash had been his ticket in.

Cash was small-time, just a knee-breaker, but he worked for Danny Fitzgerald, and Fitzgerald was on the make. Prostitution, chop shops, book-making, protection, he was muscling his way into the traditional mob rackets, and racking up a nasty body count on the way. His gang was organized and disciplined. Everybody knew Fitzgerald was in charge, but the cops couldn't get any of the little fish to flip on him or his lieutenants. So Ray got sent in, deep cover, to bring him down.

It'd been a classic bust, picture-perfect. Two weeks after meeting Cash, Gary had a job ripping off cars for Fitzgerald. Within 12 weeks he was a trusted errand-boy. By 15 weeks, he knew where all the bodies were buried. And, more important, where Fitzgerald kept his meticulous, detailed written records. Ray didn't even need to testify to get the convictions nailed down, so his cover didn't get dinged.

"Is he good looking?" Cash asked. "What am I saying, of course he's good looking. Come on, I want details."

"Oh," said Ray, scrabbling for inspiration, "He's tall, dark hair, blue eyes. Clean. Very clean. And he's all polite, which is annoying," and shit, this was Fraser he was describing here, "but underneath it all, he's … he really cares about people, tries to make a difference."

Cash was grinning. "Boy scout-type, huh?"

"You have _no_ idea." They chatted a little more, Ray looking relaxed while inside his coat pocket his fingers traced the hinge of his lighter, over and over.

"Nah, I can't give out our number, Ben's kind of the jealous type, and he thinks all my old friends are bad influences." Wink and grin, but he took the number that Cash scribbled on a piece of paper towel and shoved it in his pocket before getting out of the store. Fast.

As Ray drove home, he thought about it. The funny thing was, he had a lot of happy memories from those four months. He'd liked being Gary. Fitzgerald's boys were a tight-knit crew and they made him feel welcome from day one. More than the cops over at the 18th ever had. Okay, they might be a little rough around the edges and real fucking creative when it came to dealing with the competition, but not too different from the guys he'd grown up with. And Cash was great, with a wicked sense of humor and all those cool stories about his time with the Army Rangers.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Gary ran up the stairs to Cash's place. He was soaking wet and shivering. It was pouring outside, but he'd decided to make a dash for it. Gary hadn't seen Cash all day, and he couldn't wait to tell him about the dead lizard he'd found stashed under the seat of the Corvette he'd ripped off today. Plus, Cash had a big screen TV, almost as good as floor tickets for tonight's game. Cash looked up from his crossword puzzle as Gary stepped through the door and shook his head, creating his own little rain shower.

"Gary, you dickhead," Cash said affectionately, "Wait right there. I'll get a towel."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and then emerged a few seconds later with a dark green bath towel. He walked to Gary and held out the towel, a funny look on his face. Suddenly he leaned in, pinning the towel between them as he captured Gary's mouth in a kiss.

Half of Gary was freaking out, because, hello, getting kissed by a guy. Half of him was like, what the fuck, Cash knows I'm not supposed to be screwing around while I'm working on staying sober. Does he suspect something? Is this a test? If so, what's the right answer? And half of him was pretty much stuck on _soft, warm, nice,_ and as Cash's lips parted and his tongue gently traced Gary's lips, _really fucking hot,_ and it'd been way too long, and last time Stella didn't even give him a goodbye kiss before kicking him out in the morning.

That was too many halves, and Gary was pretty much frozen in place as Cash pulled back, looked him seriously in the eye, and said, "Nope, still a frog."

Then the two of them cracked up and started laughing like maniacs, and everything was cool. Gary scooped the towel off the floor, dried his hair, hung up his coat, and draped the towel over the couch before he sat down to watch the game with Cash.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Ray walked slowly up the stairs, let himself into his apartment, and put away his groceries. His beer had a shelf all to itself in the fridge. His Chicago PD coffee mug was sitting on the counter, right where he'd left it this morning. He walked over to the phone and started to dial for pizza, then hung up. He wasn't really all that hungry. The answering machine flickered a stubborn 0 at him.

The two-week required downtime after the Fitzgerald bust had been rough. Other undercover gigs had him playing real bad guys, and you'd think those would be harder to come back from. But no, those he was glad to shake off. Ray had a hard, hard time letting go of Gary.

He'd thought seriously about trying to get Cash to give up the goods on Fitzgerald, earn a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. But they could stick Cash's picture in the dictionary under the word 'loyal'. No way the guy would go for it. Most likely Ray'd have bought himself a hot lead retirement party. So he left Cash to rot in prison, along with all the other guys he'd spent the past few months getting to know.

He quit smoking cold turkey, which sucked, and took up heavy drinking as a hobby, just as a fuck-you to all those AA pricks, and found out it was possible to spend his nights so drunk and his days so hung-over that he didn't really care. When his lieutenant called up to remind him to get his butt back to work the next day, he realized he'd managed to go two whole weeks without leaving the damned apartment. He'd made it in, feeling like shit on day-old bread, and they'd offered him the Vecchio gig.

His Lieu had handed over a bunch of files of Vecchio, his life, his cases, and few more on Vecchio's partner, the Mountie. The Mountie was key to his cover, some Fed in a suit had told him. Just as long as he stayed hooked in with the Mountie, the real Vecchio would keep on breathing.

Ray pulled out the scrap of paper towel Cash'd written his number on.

Calling Cash was a bad idea. Real bad. Sure, give him an hour to think his way back into it, and Ray could be Gary. But what was the point? It wasn't like they could hang out. Within ten minutes, Cash would spill his guts about something that would violate his parole. Probably even offer Gary a job. And then he'd be stuck either sending Cash back to prison, or sitting on stuff that could get him fired.

Ray tossed the number in the trash.

He could call Fraser at the Consulate. Order a pizza, pick up Fraser and Dief, and then if he wasn't hungry, it just meant the wolf'd get slipped more under the table. He dialed the number.

Fraser coming over was a bad idea. Ray wasn't sure why; he just had a feeling about it. And Ray was a guy who lived by his instincts. So he hung up just as it started to ring.

Ray picked up his coffee mug and dropped it into the sink. It hit the side with a loud clink, chipped. Suddenly he was pissed off, shaking with the need to hit somebody. Ray grabbed for the mug and swung around, releasing the handle to let it sail into the far wall, smashing into a million pieces.

It didn't help.

Fuck it. Ray jerked open a kitchen drawer. He reached over the aluminum foil and past the weird kitchen junk Stella hadn't bothered to take and he couldn't bring himself to throw out, through the melon ballers and fondue forks, way into the back for his pack of Marlboros. Gary smoked like a chimney. Vecchio didn't smoke. But Ray, sure, sometimes he'd light up when Fraser wasn't around.

Ray grabbed the Zippo out of his coat pocket, opened the window, and stepped out onto the fire escape. Back inside, his phone rang. Ray slammed the window shut; the machine could get it. He sat down, legs dangling over the edge, and tapped a cigarette out of the pack. Ray lit up, then instantly pulled the thing out of his mouth and spat off the side of the fire escape. Stale cigarettes. Great. Still, something was better than nothing.

Just last week, Fraser had protected him from Cahill, from both sides of the law. Fraser said he knew Ray wasn't guilty of killing Volpe. Not 'cause he had proof, or anything. No. Just because Ray was his partner and his friend.

That should feel good, right?

Nah. Felt like shit. It meant Fraser was just another goddamned mark, like all the rest. Ray inhaled a big first lungful of smoke. Christ, he needed that.

'Undercover work is simple enough', Sam Franklin had told him once. 'All you have to do is find out what people want, give it to them until they trust you, and then screw them over.' Sam was right. Undercover was easy, and Ray was good at it. Stella wanted a hero, a tough guy to protect her and piss off her parents, and that's what she got, until she didn't buy his act anymore. Cash wanted a buddy, and he got one. Fraser walked in so desperate for his partner that Ray could taste it. "You set 'em up, I knock 'em down," a little riff about a duet, and he was in.

Ray'd warned Fraser in that crypt. He'd _told_ him he was a con job. But did he listen? No. No he did not. Fraser just reeled off a bunch of citations from Ray's file, and said he was proud to be his partner and friend. So from then on Ray was playing Fraser's partner and his friend. Being whatever Fraser needed. That was his job.

Ray lit a second cigarette from the end of his first. He didn't usually chain-smoke, but this seemed like the night for it.

That first day with Fraser had been nuts. Tracking down the bad guy, interrogating a freaking performance arsonist in a straight jacket, driving a burning car into Lake Michigan when he couldn't even swim. He threw himself into the part, full speed ahead. And when he saw that woman pointing a gun at Fraser, it was like, it was just exactly like that time he was street sledding as a kid and saw the parked car he was about to slam into. He knew it was gonna hurt, but the ride was _worth_ it. So he threw himself in between them, and as he felt the round punch into his ribs, his only regret was that the ride hadn't lasted a little longer.

He was surprised to be not-dead, in a good way. He might even have laughed, so damned happy the vest had actually caught the bullet like it was supposed to. It wasn't until he was alone in the shower back at the 2-7, checking out his bruised chest, that he puked. He'd always wondered just how far he'd be willing to go on an undercover job. Seemed like the answer was all the fucking way.

He got up the next day and did it all over again. That's what it was like, playing Fraser's partner. And most days it was great. The two of them were flying high, cop superheroes, Fraser with his hat and super-senses, Ray with his badge and gun, bringing down the bad guys like nobody else could.

And most nights it was good, when he was working with Fraser, or hanging out with Fraser. Guy could probably get a date with two-thirds the population of Chicago between the ages of six and sixty, but instead he spent most of his time with Ray. And, sure, that was part of the game, since he and Vecchio were tight like that, but maybe it was more. Because Fraser was _lonely_, and Ray recognized all the signs, because that was a road he had cruised himself from time to time.

But tonight Ray remembered that none of it was really his. Not his name, not his job, not his partner, not his friend. He was just faking it. And he knew that someday, someday soon, he'd fall, he'd fuck up. He could feel it like a big, flashing neon sign of LOSER hanging over his head.

And that'd be a problem, because Fraser _leaned_ on his partner. He depended on Ray, to get his freaky thinking, and follow his crazy plans, and watch his back, and cover him when he chased down four armed men and tried to talk them into handing over their guns. So Ray knew he'd be dragging Fraser down with him, when that day came.

Maybe the real Vecchio would get back before then.

Ray stubbed out his cigarette in the corner of the fire escape, with the other six butts. His throat and chest felt like he'd been gargling with safety glass – he'd be feeling those extra smokes tomorrow. Ray stuffed the rest of the pack in his back pocket, crawled back in through his window and went to grab a CD. He paused. Cash was a member at the HotHouse, used to drag Gary there for live jazz and blues shows at least once a week.

Ray's hand hovered over an Albert Ayler CD, and then settled on some Afro-Latin. He turned off the lights and put a Bossa Nova on. He stood still for a moment, listening, letting the music take him. Then he took off his holster and his shield, laid them down on the coffee table, and started dancing. Ray stepped and tapped and swayed to the eight-beat. A slow Bolero was next, drifting him around the room until he fit back into his own skin. A Mambo, double-speed, triple-speed, sweating through his shirt.

A knock at the door. Ray froze, and then dove for the stereo to turn off the music. Fuck, Cash had found him, followed him somehow, and he wasn't ready, the place wasn't right. "Hold on a second!" He shrugged into his shoulder holster, threw his coat on to hide it, and stuffed his badge under the sofa cushions. _Gary_, he thought to himself, _Gary Campbell_.

Gary opened the door a few inches and peered out. Fraser was standing there. Fuck. Gary eyed him up and down. Hiking boots, jeans, leather jacket, hat. Hat, leather jacket, jeans, hiking boots. Fuck.

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

Fraser took off his hat, turned it a few times in his hands. "Could I come in?"

Gary, no, _Ray_ gave an easy smile. "Now's not really a good time, Frase."

"Ah." A little frown creased Fraser's forehead. He leaned forward, sniffed the air, and then straightened up. He tapped his nose and said in a loud, cheerful voice, "Well, I'm very sorry to have bothered you, Ray. I'll return at a more convenient time."

Ray slumped. Un-fucking-believable. Anybody else would figure Ray was getting laid here, and give him some privacy. Fraser, he was convinced Ray was being held _hostage_. And, sure, given Ray's track record over the past ten months, he had his reasons, but ... Jesus. If Ray let him walk out of here, he'd have SWAT at his door in 10 minutes.

"Fine," he said, throwing the door open. "Come in. Look around. Have a ball."

And Fraser did. He secured the entire apartment, room by room, checking in the closets and behind the doors. All by the book, only 1) Fraser didn't have a gun, and B) he left the only guy in the place who _did_ have a gun at his back, the entire time. Ray took off his coat, threw it on the floor, grabbed himself a beer and plunked down on the couch. He put his feet up, one ankle crossing over the other, right next to Fraser's hat on the coffee table.

The sweat on his face dried. His hand was aching from a tight hold on his beer by the time Fraser got done checking the showerhead for hidden cameras, or whatever the fuck he was doing, and moved to stand in front of him. "Ray – what's wrong?"

Ray looked up at Fraser. "Nothing. Everything's peachy-keen during Search and Seizure Day here at Castle del Ray."

"You called me," Fraser started.

"Nope," Ray interrupted, sitting up and reaching around Fraser to put his beer on the table.

And now Fraser was starting to look pissed off. "You most certainly did. There are signs of a struggle," he said, pointing out the shattered mug. "And what's more, someone has been smoking in your apartment."

_And sitting on my couch, and drinking my beer…_ "That'd be me." Ray lounged back against his couch cushions, starting to enjoy this.

"But," Fraser seemed to deflate a bit, "you don't smoke."

Ray squirmed around so he could pull his Marlboros out of his back pocket, and tossed one from the pack into his mouth. He'd spent a month perfecting that move when he was fifteen. Impressed the hell outta Stella, and a few other folks over the years. He reached into his front pocket for his Zippo, lit up, inhaled, and then let the smoke trickle out through his nose as he shrugged.

"Good to know." His voice was part _Fuck you_, part _Wanna fuck me?_ and all Gary.

Fraser stared. He took a breath, like he was about to say something, and then stopped. Took half a step back, and went all Blank-Faced Mountie.

Shit. What the fuck kind of game was Ray playing at here? This was no good, not for him, not for Fraser, not for the job. And he was, like, Fraser's only friend here, and this was a shitty way to treat a friend. Fraser turned around, ready to walk off.

Ray bounced to his feet. "Look, Fraser, wait. I just …you're right, okay? I called, you're right. I had a bad day, a very bad day, and I just need to get some sleep." He had to get Fraser out of here so he could pull himself together.

Fraser turned back, rubbed his eyebrow. "Did Stella…"

"No. No. This has nothing to do with Stella."

"Well then…" Fraser shook his head, and his face was anything but blank now, there were all kinds of emotion. Anger and kindness, confusion and frustration, spilling out all over. "I'm trying to understand, Ray, but you're not giving me much to go on."

Christ, Ray was exhausted. Way too tired. But he had to get through this. Had to. "Fraser." His voice was low and strained. "You realize you don't actually know me at all?"

It seemed to echo around the room.

Ray could see the moment Fraser got it, because he suddenly went pale. Fraser walked to the window and stood looking out at the streetlights.

So Ray had pretty much fucked himself, and maybe Vecchio, too. But it was such a _relief_. Because now Fraser knew. And Ray could stop pretending to be some superhero, just go back to being a normal guy. He dropped his cigarette into the beer bottle on the table, heard it hiss out.

Fraser swung around. He was still pale, but now he looked determined and a little excited, like when he was about to jump off a building. He strode across the room, right up into Ray's personal space, and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"It has occurred to me," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "It has. But I want to know you, Ray. I want that, very much." And Fraser's hand was moving, drifting from Ray's shoulder to his face, a thumb stroking along his jaw.

Oh. Oh!

And all of a sudden this was very familiar, and Ray felt like laughing, but if he did, he didn't think he'd be able to stop. 'Cause Ray wasn't gay, but Cash was gay, and Gary was gay, and it turned out Fraser was gay, so maybe Vecchio was gay, too. And nobody had mentioned that, it wasn't in the files, but Fraser _wanted_ him, right? And that's how undercover works; you give people what they want.

Only … for Ray to lie, not just with his words, but with his body, his eyes, his everything, he had to believe the lie, at least a little bit. So could he do this? Could he…

Fraser stepped closer and brushed his lips against Ray's, so gentle, and then pulled back. Oh God. Something in Ray caught on fire, like a cat doused in lighter fluid. Yeah, he could do this.

Fuck gentle. Ray grabbed Fraser by the collar of his jacket and hauled him in for another kiss. This one was open mouths and tongue, and Fraser was moaning, and pressing up against him, which turned Ray's crank something fierce. He shoved, and Fraser half-fell back down onto the couch, looking all hair-mussed and glazed-eye lust. Ray moved in, kneeling half in Fraser's lap, and went back to the kissing. Kissing he was good at, and Fraser sure seemed to appreciate it, with the little _mmm_ noises.

Okay, so what else could he do here? Important rule in undercover – always look like you know what you're doing. Ray sat back a little, and worked the buttons on Fraser's jeans. Fraser rested his head on the couch back, eyes closed. Ray got the buttons figured, and out popped Fraser's cock in a white cotton wrapping. He moved the little boxer flaps out the way, pretty convenient, and got his first look. Right. Uncut guy dick. Not a problem. Jerking off was a long-term hobby of his, and it couldn't be too different.

Ray reached out to touch. "God, Ray," Fraser whispered, his eyes screwed shut like he was in pain. Ray grasped the head of Fraser's dick and started pumping. It was a little weird at first, extra loose skin and backwards, kind of like shooting left-handed. And then he changed his grip a bit, and Fraser gasped, hitching up his hips in little movements under Ray's thighs, so Ray used his thumb to pick up some of the wetness from the tip, brushed it down over the sensitive spot under the head, and Fraser was coming all over Ray's hand and his own shirt, a quiet "Ahhhhh," escaping from his mouth.

Ray stood up to get a towel or something, to clean up the mess. Having another guy's jizz on him was a little gross. Then Fraser opened his eyes, looked up at him, and smiled. It was – wow. It was beautiful, gorgeous, like dawn after a long bad night. Fraser leaned forward, took the sticky hand Ray was holding out awkwardly in front of him, brought it to his mouth, and licked from the base of his wrist all the way out to his fingers, tasting himself, staring up at Ray the whole time. Then he put Ray's fingers in his mouth and started sucking on them. And Ray literally forgot to breathe, what with Fraser looking like that, doing that to him.

Fraser stood up, still holding his hand. He gave a little smile, almost shy, and tugged Ray into the bedroom. Fraser started stripping down fast, just like in the Consulate last week, but with this challenging glint in his eye. So, okay, try anything once, Ray started taking off his own clothes. Gun on the side, everything else on the floor. Pretty soon they were both undressed. Ray was feeling … naked. Very naked.

Fraser sat down on the unmade bed and patted the sheet next to him. Ray sat down. Fraser's tongue moved slowly across his lower lip as he looked Ray over. Then he scooted closer for a kiss. Kissing was fine, familiar, even if it was with a naked guy in his bed. Then Fraser was leaning, pushing him back down onto the bed. They made out like that for a few minutes, Ray getting off on the taste of Fraser's mouth and the feel of his weight all over him. Then Fraser pulled away, and tried to turn him over.

Whoa. What was that about? Did Fraser want to fuck him? Because Ray wasn't really up for that. Taking it up the ass – that was very, very gay. "Uhhhhh," he said, lifting himself up on his arms, heart starting to race in all the wrong ways.

"Please, let me, Ray, let me do this," Fraser said urgently, eyes dark, lying on his side, running a hand over Ray's shoulder.

Inside Ray's head, he heard Mom's voice, _'If that Stella jumped off a bridge, would you follow her, Stanley?'_ The answer had always been yes. Ray let out the breath he'd been holding and lay down, arms stretched out over his head. Ready to go wherever the ride was taking him.

Fraser hummed happily. He started by brushing his hands through Ray's hair, rubbing his scalp gently, while kissing the skin just behind his ear. It was nice. Almost cozy, more like getting petted than getting fucked. Ray felt his muscles relax, and wished he could purr. Fraser slowly moved down Ray's body, hands and lips and, God, tongue, exploring every inch of his skin. Reading him, knowing him, shaping him. Ray was shaking, and sweating, and couldn't even tell where Fraser was stroking and licking anymore, it was everywhere.

Then Fraser turned him over and started all over again on his front. It was … fuck. Not too much, never too much, but he just kept going and going and _going_ until Ray felt like his body wasn't made of skin and bone, just want and need and more.

Fraser pulled away, and Ray managed to open his eyes to find that brilliant smile back on Fraser's face.

"Ray, you look …"

Ray panted, because, talking? Not gonna happen now.

"I want to feel you climax in my mouth. Could I do that?" Bright, shining eyes. Ray managed a nod.

Fraser wrapped one hand around the base of Ray's cock and licked up the underside of his cock. Ray whimpered. Then Fraser sucked him in, and fuck, his mouth was hot, and that tongue kept licking. Fraser's head was bobbing up and down on him, and Ray felt his balls pull up tight. Fraser mmmm'd around his cock, and that was it, Ray was shuddering, coming, long spurts into Fraser's mouth. Into his mouth. Jesus.

Fraser slid up his body to kiss him, murmuring, "Beautiful, Ray, so beautiful," until Ray fell asleep in the middle of a kiss.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, Ray uncurled himself from around a warm, snoring Fraser, and padded to the bathroom. He turned on the light, cleaned himself up, splashed water on his face, and stared in the mirror.

How far was he willing to go on an undercover job? Seemed like the answer was all the way. All the fucking way.

Whatever Fraser wanted, he was gonna get. Ray could see it now; a future full of car chases and kisses, blowjobs and shoot-outs, terrorists and breakfast in bed, following Fraser down the yellow brick road of good intentions all the way to hell.

What did Ray want? A part of Ray wanted Fraser, sure. Maybe a big part. But he had to hold back, 'cause none of this was real, and Ray was no good at letting go of people. Exhibit A, Stella. Someday Vecchio was gonna show up to take back his life, his job, his partner, his friend, his fucking _boyfriend_. And then the department would give Ray a few weeks to fade back to being Stanley Raymond Kowalksi.

He could do that. He could. This new thing with Fraser, well, that'd just make it a little harder.

Ray'd just have to play it cool, keep it together, and hope Vecchio came back soon. While Ray still had a little bit left of himself to go back to.


End file.
